Mother's day confessions

Dear Michelle,

Hey mum, I’ve never told you this before but I don’t feel anything for you. I don’t think I ever have unless you count fear which demonstrably is not a mother’s day thing and yet I still feel the need to write this down.

I don’t feel I ever had a mother; all I see in my childhood is an empty space where a mother should have been. Actually. It’s worse than that in fact, for in that space was you. A woman of rage and hate, of pride and spite, a woman who dares called herself a mother while driving her children away with such inhumanity. All I have ever felt for you is terror and anxiety, then resentment, then hatred and then finally, nothing at all.

This day is not meant for you, I don’t remember being grateful for you. I don’t remember ever meaning the words ‘I love you’ nor do I ever remember believing you when you said it to me. I don’t remember many days that I dreaded more than mother’s day.

But, I write a letter for this day because I know what it’s meant to be now. My Uncle takes my cousins to buy their mother chocolate and flowers, they make their own cards for her, sometimes they make little presents too. All in secret of course so they can surprise her. And on this day those boys look so excited to present their mother with gifts, eager to see her happy smile, to hear the words ‘I love you boys’ and to say it back to her.

I remember no such happy things with you. It was a day stress and fear for me, wondering each year if you were expecting more; if chocolate was good enough, if I needed to say more than I love you. Those days never meant anything to me, I can’t pretend to know what they meant to you but I get the feeling it was about nothing but your misplaced pride.

I never remember when mother’s day is now, it’s the same time each year and yet the date never sticks in my mind. I only know it’s coming up if I’ve spent the weekend before hand at my Aunt and Uncle’s. It is a day that I will never take part it, a day I will only ever watch thanks to you.

Don’t make the mistake of thinking that this is a day of sadness for me though, I find such joy in this day now that you are gone. It surprises me almost every year and I get to see my little cousins and my Aunt and Uncle celebrate the day as a family should. The children wake excited for their mother’s important day, my aunt wakes to a relaxing day of no chores and we usually go out for a meal together to round up the whole thing and spend the evening playing games or watching movies.

I write about all this now, for this day, because I know that I’m not the only one that looks back on all their years with their “mother” and feels exactly this way.

You left an emptiness that was replaced with warmth, you left fear that was replaced with joy, you left loathing that was replaced with love, you left sadness that was replaced with contentment. This day is not for you or me but in your own perverse way you made this day meaningful, for the first time in all my life when you abandoned me, and I can celebrate it now as I watch my family, happy in the absence of you.

How to end this melancholy letter I don’t really know, but I feel I should say:

Never yours,

Eireann.